


Je ne regrette rien

by Oshun



Category: Richard II - Shakespeare
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 17:49:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oshun/pseuds/Oshun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For you have but mistook me all this while:<br/>I live with bread like you, feel want,<br/>Taste grief, need friends: subjected thus,<br/>How can you say to me I am a King?<br/>-- William Shakespeare, King Richard II</p><p>Thank you so much, for giving me the opportunity to write this story and thanks also to IgnobleBard and Lilith_Lessfair for reading and nitpicking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Je ne regrette rien

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angevin2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angevin2/gifts).



For you have but mistook me all this while:  
I live with bread like you, feel want,  
Taste grief, need friends: subjected thus,  
How can you say to me I am a King?  
\-- William Shakespeare, _King Richard II_

 

o0o0o0o

It’s in his eyes, Richard thought. If he were to look only at his pouty mouth or to listen to his voice, with its tone that hovered between flat and faintly aggrieved, he would not be able to guess that Aumerle wanted him. But his eyes blazed with it.

Richard was vain about his own prowess as a lover, about the fact that he could please either a man or a woman. He had learned so much from his darling Rob, but he and Anne, completely on their own, had perfected a different genre of the art of love. In time, the two sets of knowledge overlapped one another.

It had been inevitable that he would fall in love with Robbie, something he had known since he first saw him. But the love he and Anne shared had fallen upon Richard as an unexpected gift. He had hoped to learn to love Anne of Bohemia on some level. What a surprise to have found himself falling in love with her, to be twice blessed was more than any man might have hoped for, rarer still for a King.

After the horror of losing them both so young, he learned to live again. With the taking up of life came a realization. Being loved by them when he did, as the young King he had been at that time, also meant he would never forget the first flush of young love and its lessons, what it felt like to be eager, curious, and certain of one’s attractiveness.

Somewhere along the way, Richard discovered that he was good at loving, not simply at the acquired skills of lovemaking. At first, barely able to see beyond the fog of his grief, he tried to lose himself in soft skin, hard muscles, sweet kisses, bold excesses, pliant bodies and wills. While none of those were enough to drown the pain of losing Anne or Rob, they did provide a lovely distraction. Eventually, some lovers turned into true friends, like Bushy, Bagot and Green. Then, within a few short years, he found himself delighted with the French girl he had taken as his new Queen. And now the sultry, enigmatic young man, the Duke of Aumerle, beckoned to him.

Aumerle was almost too easy to be good sport, so desperate he was to be pleased. But, since Richard did not make love for sport and since he was both addicted to pleasing and being pleased, they seemed an almost perfect match. Considering it from that perspective, the appeal of satisfying Aumerle’s desperation was all but irresistible.

Isabella tilted her head toward Richard and whispered to him in his native tongue. She had determined to learn good English. Her breathy French accent and the subtle cadence it lent her speech had first enchanted him, more than even her youthful beauty.

“Ah, _mon chéri_ , he’ll be next, won’t he?” She nodded in the direction of Aumerle.

“What makes you think that?” She was far too perceptive for her age and knew him far too well for him to dissemble.

“You crave adoration like the blossoming trees need rain in the spring. And he obviously adores you. Take him if you must. But I insist that you tell me all about it afterwards.” Her cheeks reddened at the thought.

“I most assuredly will. And if you are a very, very good girl I might even let you watch later after he grows more accustomed to me.”

“You are wicked and impossible!” she hissed, thoroughly diverted by his teasing.

“But, despite all that, you love me still.”

“As you love me, my lord.”

The bland composure of her face broke into a smile bearing all the strength of a southern summer sun, bringing to mind ripe golden fields and vines heavy with purple grapes, immediately followed by the image of her pale creamy body with its lovely roseate details. Naked she was more luscious than imaginable if one had only ever seen her, girlish and proper, fully clothed in gowns of every conceivable cut and color, made of yards and yards of silk and the softest wool, trimmed with golden braid and beads of glass and precious pearls.

Oh, yes. They loved one another, with hands and tongues, and provocative immodest displays. Isabella had loved to watch Bagot and Bushy pleasure him even before he had finally agreed that she was ripe enough for him to break her maidenhead. Most of all, she preferred touching herself until she whimpered on the edge of release while watching him impale his pretty Green who always cast his eyes down shyly, lashes dark against flushed cheeks, even as he panted and begged to be breached. Or, as he usually expressed it, ‘Harder. Faster, sir, please. I can take it. Aye. Aye. Aye. Oh, Richard!’

After all the titillating talk between Isabella and him of when, where, and how to least painfully assault her virginity, when Richard at last made love to his ardent young queen, there had been no membrane to break. They would never know if the cause lay in all of the months of manual stimulation, outside and in, or the horseback riding from her youth. She _was_ an admirable horsewoman. A physic had further advised them that the only assurance of encountering a virgin inviolate would be in the case of Our Blessed Lady herself. He pompously proclaimed that, contrary to popular belief, although the tissue could be thick in some cases, in as many other instances it might be thin to non-existent by the time a maiden reached beddable age. He claimed that he always recommended a small bladder of fresh sheep’s blood to splash on the sheets to ensure there would be no gossip relating to the virtue of a newly-wedded virgin bride.

Richard did know, without a glimmer of doubt, that he remained the first and only one to penetrate Isabella’s sweet eager body, which he did with regularity, preferably without an audience. A Queen deserved her privacy after all. Some few things were still held sacred in the bed of England’s King and one of those was the womb of his royal wife. His own sense of chivalry required, doubly so in light of her generous acquiesce to his own perversions, that he reserve some part of their love play as exclusively hers and hers alone.

Their familiar circle encompassed diverse appetites and needs, all of which Richard balanced with delicacy--exquisite precision, if he had to say so himself. But, he could not imagine Aumerle fitting into that treasured gallery of rogues and debauched innocents. His precious cousin would expect to be coddled, given personal attention, be convinced he was unique in every way.

Swiveling to the right, with an admonishing snort, Richard arranged himself so the visage of the lovely Isabella no longer loomed in his direct line of vision, distracting him from his duties. She had learned too well under his tutelage, knew exactly how to wind him up with a word or a glance. He truly ought not permit that sort of thing in such a setting.

He thought of how this was an official gathering, dedicated to the affairs of the realm, and all of manner of dull and important concerns. He needed to follow these discussions of resources with care. Oh, how he hated that part of governance. But, sadly, it was not as though he had the assets of his uncle John of Gaunt. It never ceased to rankle that the Duke of Lancaster grew richer every year, while God’s Anointed King was forced to shuffle and beg like a downtrodden peasant trying to pull together enough grain to sow his fields the following spring.

Although, if Richard were to be truthful, he would have to admit that this business of state could never have held his full attention on such a day, in such company, with the scents and sounds of high summer drifting in through the open windows. The garden below was filled with overblown roses, past their prime and dropping petals. Their heady fragrance entered the council chamber with each slight breeze.

Unfortunately, after shifting his gaze from the attractions of his nubile bride, he squarely faced a lascivious, smirking William Bagot. To the right of him, John Bushy appeared restive, shifting from one foot to the other, while Henry Green, naturally, blushed when they made eye contact.

Richard sighed and turned to the Duke of Aumerle, asking, “Ah, now, my dearest cousin, what matters demand our further attention this morning.”

“Your majesty,” Aumerle said, voice low and seductive, revealing no emotion, lips plump and sensual, begging to be kissed, eyes bright sapphires of appreciation and unsatisfied lust. The blue of his tunic gracefully draped his tall frame, clinging in all the right places. The Creator, through the vessels of Lord and Lady York, had given Aumerle a marvelous corporeal form, broad of shoulders, long of leg, willowy as that of an Adonis.

“Your majesty,” he began again, as though sensing Richard’s lapse of concentration. Aumerle unfailingly comported himself with utmost discretion in public, despite the increasing informality of their private encounters. “There only remains the matter of the failure of the grain harvest in the . . . .”

Aumerle’s dark hair fell onto his forehead in a tousled mass of loose curls, positively sinful. If it were not for the tight-fitting trousers carefully tucked into his elegant boots, which had been polished to an impossible sheen, the man would appear as though he had just stumbled out of bed after a thorough tupping.

“Again? What are they asking now?” Richard said, trying to soothe the snappishness of his tone, by slowing his speech and lowering the timbre of his voice. “Never mind. I am certain I saw some figures on that. They might be in my study.”

Simply because he could, Richard frowned inquisitively at Bushy, Bagot, and Green as though he thought _they_ might have an opinion about the shortage of grain in the north. Of course, they did not. He might share his concerns with them from time to time, they were knights and, for all practical intents and purposes, literate to a man, but still the furthest thing from clerks or bean counters. Dear sweet Green, looking abashed and desolate, shook his head in the negative, swallowing visibly. Richard would have to find the time to kiss his discomfort away.

“Well then,” Richard said, standing and extending his hand to his Queen. “I think we should break for now and resume that discussion tomorrow. We _are_ famished. Perhaps you will consent to dine with us, dear Aumerle, and refresh our memory of harvests and disappointed expectations?”

“As you wish, my liege.” Aumerle bowed, neither obsequiously deep, nor indifferently, but with an appealing economy of movement and sensitivity to effect. It would be such a pleasure to crack that veneer of control. Sooner rather than later would be preferable, without Bushy, Bagot or Green, but perhaps, only if Aumerle was not too skittish, with Isabella.

 

o0o0o0o

In Richard’s Solar, a summer table had been set. Fresh bread and butter, along with white and purple grapes, had been arranged on beds of greens, with sliced melon, ham, cold chicken, and cheese replacing the usual hot dishes.

“Step in, my dear, and make yourself comfortable,” Richard ordered Aumerle. “We are all here now. Lancaster and his coterie were not invited. Only the beloved and light of heart.”

Aumerle allowed a glimmer of a smile to cross his face, before cocking an eyebrow that seemed to ask, ‘Really, Richard?’ as he subtly canted his head in the direction of Bushy, Green, and Bagot giggling and lobbing grapes at one another. A wave of defensiveness swept over Richard. Aumerle knew nothing of his three closest courtiers, how they in loyalty to him had left personal ambition and families behind and endured scorn and gossip on his behalf. It is always easier to heap opprobrium upon those surrounding a monarch than to criticize him directly.

“Finally,” Isabella breathed, extending her hand to his cousin for a kiss. Aumerle bent over the little queen’s delicate white hand, with a self-deprecatory shrug and another smirk at Richard.

“My Queen,” he said. Aumerle’s spirits seemed to rise when Richard at last dismissed everyone but him and Isabella, appearing less vulnerable and more darkly seductive in the absence of the clueless favorites.

Richard flirted; Aumerle responded in kind. Isabella observed, amused. She excused herself shortly thereafter without so much as a cueing glance from Richard.

“Alone at last,” Richard said in a disingenuous attempt at insouciance. Aumerle’s bark of a cheeky laugh surprised him, but not as much as his cousin falling to his knees between his legs.

“At last indeed! I didn’t think they would ever leave.” Raising his head to meet his eyes, he slipped a hand beneath Richard’s tunic to caress his hardening prick. “You do want this don’t you?” he asked as Richard gasped.

“I had thought I would need to seduce you,” Richard whispered, breathless as a virgin.

“And here I thought you had been for months now. Maybe even years.” He fumbled to undo the laces on the front of Richard’s hosen. “Lovely,” he said, taking Richard’s cock in his hand. “Long, slender, and elegant just like you.”

It was Richard’s turn to laugh. “Fair cousin, you are the beautiful one.”

Richard had never overestimated his own appeal. He knew he had a handsome face, if far less striking than that of his cousin. Much of his own charm lay in looking younger than his age. He could be called almost painfully thin, all sharp shoulder blades, elbows and hip bones. But he was the anointed king of their people; it would be impossible to underestimate that element in the equation of his desirability. The fact was, that he had won the hearts of Rob, of Anne, of Bushy, Bagot and Green, of his precious Isabella and, at long last had a chance at Edward Duke of Aumerle.

They ended up on the chaise longue near the windows. It was a poor substitute for a bed. But they had been unable to wait. And, the location did have the advantage of allowing them the breeze and providing Richard with an indelible memory of the scent of roses whenever he thought of their first time.

Richard admired the contrast of Aumerle’s honey-colored skin against the stark whiteness of his own. They fit well together being of comparable height. He looked down at the flushed cheeks, lush lips, and sea-grey eyes, which squinted shut when his body convulsed with a sudden shudder. Aumerle came quietly, stoic beneath the all too apparent sensuality that had initially ensnared Richard. The clenching of his tight channel encasing Richard’s sex caused him to follow in an instant.

After Richard had slipped out of him, they clung to one another on the chaise longue, hot and dripping sweat in the burning afternoon sun, enduring the heat for closeness. The smell of sex and roses hung heavy in the air.

After a long while, Aumerle spoke first. “Rumor has it that you are an artist at making love. I expected that. But I truly did not expect such heart and generosity.”

How silly, Richard thought. “There is no art in love without those,” he said. “To be perfectly honest, you tested me more than most. One could almost say demanded. But I gave as willingly as ever I have.”

“You made it feel easy. I was surprised at how natural we are together.”

“You swept me off my feet. I forgot everything but you.” It was true. This could be dangerous.

“I am afraid now.” The expression on Aumerle’s face was not vulnerable, but determined.

“How? Why? It was wonderful, was it not?”

“Obviously,” Aumerle scoffed, “Bushy, Bagot, and Green. I don’t share well.”

“I’d guessed that. Perhaps I can adjust that situation. They are lovely men though.”

“I am sure they have hidden qualities I do not see. I truly do not understand what you see in them. Or, I may be jealous. Jealousy is a harsh critic.”

“I value them, but I would consider making certain sacrifices.”

Aumerle laughed in response, jubilant, triumphant, and young. “You already had my loyalty and love. Now you have my heart.”

 _Oh, Edward, my dearest Aumerle_ , Richard thought. _You have entrapped me_.

 

o0o0o0o

**Eighteen Years Later:**

“For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground  
And tell sad stories of the death of kings;”  
― William Shakespeare, _Richard II_

“They say that you knew Richard well. What was he really like? He cannot have been as awful as they say he was.”

Edward, Duke of York--for one short, bright period in the summer of his life, the Duke of Aumerle, beloved of Richard II--smiled and answered. “In many ways he was a good King. But he did not take counsel well from his equals. How could he? He never believed he had any equals. I loved him. He was oblivious and heartbreakingly confused, stunning in his lack of consideration and yet profoundly loving. I regret nothing I ever did to support him and, finally, not even my betrayal of him.”

His loving wife looked at him, sighing with half-hearted irritation, as though at a quarrel long grown cold. “You did not betray him! You fought for him as long as it was possible. He was his own worst enemy. In the end, what else could you have done? There was no saving him. Even he did not want you to die with him.”

“Even now it is impossible for me to know.” He met her eyes, expecting another protest. “I do look back on that part of my life as a tragedy, and yet my brightest days as well—my highest and my lowest points.” He touched her hand in apology.

In exasperation, she jerked her hand away and turned to their companion. “Can you even begin to imagine being married to that?” She allowed herself a low, mordant laugh, before reaching up to touch Edward’s cheek and stroke his hair off his forehead, hair that gleamed in the candlelight, still thick, full and dark, although peppered lightly with grey.

“I have served three Kings as well as I could,” Edward said. “This one will be my last.”

She crossed herself three times on the forehead in rapid succession. “Pay no attention to him. He always turns perverse and maudlin when anyone mentions Richard.” She pivoted to face her Edward directly again. “Promise me, my husband and my lord. You will be careful in France. Take no unnecessary risks.” The two men laughed together. Wars were not waged like that.

Narrowing her eyes at them, she complained, “Laugh if you must. But remember you are not as young as you once were. I expect prudence and for you to return to me intact.”

 

o0o0o0o

Aumerle (Edward, 2nd Duke of York), was the highest ranking of only two members of the English nobility to be lost in the battle of Agincourt.

o0o0o0o

**Author's Note:**

> Queen Isabella, the wife of Richard II in Shakespeare’s play, is an amalgamation of his first wife Anne of Bohemia and his second Isabella of Valois. Anne would have died some number of years before the beginning of this story and his second wife would have been too young to be a real consort on any level. I decided to take another tack entirely. I chose to mention a deceased historical Anne and write Isabella as being old enough to play games with Richard and his favorites. I tried to hold onto the love he is reported to have had for Anne and the affection he held for Isabella. The Rob or Robbie referred to in this story is Robert de Vere, Duke of Ireland and 9th Earl of Oxford, long rumored to have been Richard II’s lover. This may or may not have been a slander, but they were obviously close.
> 
> Indulge me on Isabella learning to speak English, not much doubt that they simply spoke French to one another. I’ll take the same license to play with the language question that Shakespeare takes in _Henry V_ wherein he asks us to assume that Henry is unable to speak French (highly unlikely).
> 
>  **Pop history trivia** : I recently stumbled upon this one. John of Gaunt made the list of _[25 Richest People Who Ever Lived](http://www.celebritynetworth.com/articles/entertainment-articles/25-richest-people-lived-inflation-adjusted/#!/16-john-gaunt-net-worth_1004/)_ at number 16 (compiled and written by Brian Warner on October 13, 2012, published on website Celebrity Networth) . _“John of Gaunt was English King Richard II's Regent and had a net worth equal to $110 billion in today's dollars thanks to very generous land grants.”_ I am in no position to vouch for the historical accuracy or method of calculation, but it certainly is entertaining and gives a strong motivation for why Richard would try to seize his estate. Who knew he had _that_ much money?
> 
> o0o0o0o
> 
>   
> Almost forgot to mention that the interpretation in the BBC's _Hollow Crown_ series greatly influenced this story.


End file.
